Stephanie Laurens - All About Love

She almost sighed with relief.

He looked down at his soup. “You do, however, know something.”

His conviction rang absolute. Phyllida nearly threw her hands in the air-there was clearly no point in arguing. She gripped her elbows and looked past the bed at the window. After a moment, she said, “I daresay you’re ravenous, but at this stage, you would be unwise to bite off more than you can chew. Your constitution may be excellent, but the blow you suffered was severe-you’ll need time to recover full use of your faculties.”

From the corner of her eye she saw his lips twitch, felt his gaze drift assessingly over her. She mentally replayed her words and felt pleased with them. A subtle warning and a clear statement she would not bow to force majeure . With most men, just the question of what she really meant would be enough to keep them puzzled and no more threat to her.

“My faculties,” he murmured, “are returning in leaps and bounds.”

Suggestive and openly threatening, the shocking warmth in his voice slid over her skin, a wanton, explicit caress.

Without thought, she sucked in a breath and whirled to face him, as if he were a predator. She was suddenly sure he was. “You’ll need to be careful.”

She kept her expression blank, her tone direct.

He opened his eyes wide; innocence wasn’t what she saw in them. “Shouldn’t you check my wound?”

“Your wound needs nothing more than time to heal.” No power on earth would get her closer to the bed-closer to him. Phyllida frowned, and held tight to her role. She was in charge, not he. “Papa would like you to join us for afternoon tea, if you’re able.”

His smile made her nerves tingle. “I’m able.”

“Good.” She turned to the door. “I’ll have your bags brought up-as a precaution, we left them downstairs.”

“Precaution?”

“Why, yes.” Reaching the door, she looked back. “We kept your clothes from you in case you turned difficult over remaining abed.”

His lips curved; his eyes glinted. The combination looked positively wicked. “Lying abed is one of my favorite pastimes. However, if I’d wanted to get up, the mere absence of clothes wouldn’t have deterred me.” His gaze slid over her; his voice deepened. “Not in the least.”

Gripping the doorknob, Phyllida met his gaze blankly and prayed she wasn’t blushing. “I’ll let Papa know you’ll be joining us later. Your name?”

His untrustworthy smile deepened. “Lucifer.”

Phyllida stared at him; even with the width of the room separating them, all her instincts were screaming, warning her not to call his bluff. Any of his bluffs.

Some part of her knew he wasn’t the sort who bluffed.

It went seriously against her grain to let him trifle with her and escape retribution, but arguing would simply be playing into his hands. She forced herself to incline her head and evenly state, “Sweetie-Miss Sweet-will return shortly. She’ll take away your tray.”

On that note, she opened the door; with a regal nod, she left.

Later, after he’d bathed and dressed, Lucifer sat on the window seat in his bedchamber and looked north, over a dense wood. Through the shifting canopies he could occasionally glimpse the gray slate roof of the Manor.

Gaze fixed, he thought of Horatio, and of Martha, and of what he should do next, how best to move forward. Horatio’s death was an accepted fact in his mind, but the tale had only just begun.

It was quiet beyond the open window. The snoozy quality of a summer’s afternoon blanketed the village, yet somewhere in that peace a murderer waited, and watched and worried. Horatio’s death had not been neat. Not only had he, Lucifer, stumbled on the scene far too soon, but so, too, had Phyllida Tallent.

Lucifer pondered that last, and all that it might mean.

A knock interrupted his reverie. He faced the door, keen to see if intuition proved correct. “Come in.”

Phyllida entered; he smiled in private triumph. Retreating earlier and leaving the field to him must have been difficult; despite her wariness, he’d predicted she wouldn’t stay away. She glanced around the room, then discovered him. She hesitated, then, leaving the door wide, crossed toward him. Frowning, she studied his face, his eyes. He let her draw near before smoothly rising-no sudden movements.

Her lovely eyes widened. She immediately halted. “Ah…” From four feet away, she stared up at him, her expression a telltale blank. Her gaze drifted, passing over him, then she wrenched it back to his face. And caught him returning the favor. Her eyes snapped even as her expression smoothed to impassivity. “Are you sure you’ve recovered enough to join us downstairs?”

He continued to smile, relishing her resistance. “I’m quite recovered enough to brave a drawing room.” The frown in her eyes deepened; he added, “My head only aches-it no longer throbs.”

“Well…” She searched his eyes once more. “I’m afraid my aunt and cousins have arrived for the summer, and, of course, they’re agog to meet you. You must promise you won’t overtax yourself.”

Fussing was not something he readily endured, yet the idea that she’d elected herself his keeper, and was determined to do her duty despite the urgings of her common sense to keep a safer distance between them, was oddly satisfying. Oddly endearing. He smiled charmingly, too wise to smirk. “If I weaken and need support, you’ll be the first to know.”

She glared, but the concern in her dark eyes was very real. As was her suspicion.

“Very well.” She lifted her head. “And now, if you please, your real name?”

Lucifer looked down at her; he made no attempt to disguise the tenor of his smile. “I told you. Lucifer.”

She met his gaze directly. “No one is called Lucifer.”

“I am.” He stepped forward; she backed.

“That’s ludicrous. That cannot be your real name.”

He continued his advance; she continued to fall back.

“It’s the name I’m known by. There are many who would tell you it suits me.” He held her gaze and continued his prowling stroll. “If you ask anyone in the ton for Lucifer, they’ll instantly send you to me.”

Her eyes had grown wider-their expression informed him she’d never encountered a man such as he. She was both fascinated and defensive-and, he suspected, disapproving. Desire flared; he tamped it down, kept that truth from his eyes. That he delighted in transforming disapproving ladies into wanton houris was a truth she didn’t need to know.

He took the last step that backed her over the room’s threshold. Glancing about, she discovered herself in the corridor. She stiffened; the look she threw him as she stepped aside was distinctly irate. And not a little surprised. He hid a grin. It seemed likely that no one had ever managed her as he just had. He’d herded her out of the room-no hands, no voice-simply him. And there was hay yet to be made on this fine summer’s day.

Closing the door, he looked down at her. “You shouldn’t be alone with me. Especially not in a bedroom.”

She held his gaze; he struggled to keep his eyes on hers rather than focus on her swelling breasts, rising as she drew in a long, rigidly controlled breath. Lips compressed, she held it in, along with her temper.

Not at all innocently, he raised a brow at her.

Her eyes spat sparks. So fleeting was the sight, he could almost think he’d imagined it; his body’s reaction confirmed he hadn’t. In the next instant, her eyes once more dark pools of calm composure, her expression, as it so often was, deceptively serene, she inclined her head and turned down the corridor.

“Thank you for the warning.” Her words drifted back to him. “You may tell Papa your name directly. If you’ll follow me?” Head high, she moved toward the stairs.